Chocolate Chips and Freckled Faces
by Commodore Norrington
Summary: After her mother's death, a grieving and angry Sam Carter runs into someone who can help.


AN: This was a quick response to a Livejournal conversation, in which a friend penname Freelance; check out her stuff, it's awesome) and I were commenting on the fact that Sam and Cameron seem much closer than simply working together for a year would bring them. So voila. It seems I am drawn to characters-meeting-before-they-meet-on-the-show stories.

This is also unbetaed. Whatever's wrong is all my fault. Oh, and usual disclaimers apply.

* * *

Sam breathed deeply, inhaling the warm scent of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Her blue eyes sparkled as she sneaked a fingerful of dough, savoring the sweet taste. Her mom always warned her about raw eggs and salmonella, before winking and handing her a baby spoon. One spoonful for each of them, that was all, and even now, baking by herself, Sam honored that tradition.

She heard the car pull into the driveway and grinned. She may have been fifteen, but she was still allowed to miss her mother...in private, anyway. Besides, with Mark always at practice and Dad always at work, Mom was often the only company she had.

The door opened slowly and Sam heard her father's boots on the threshold. He called her name and she frowned slightly, hearing a strange note in his voice. Dismissing it in her excitement to see her mom, though, she responded, "In here!" and finished scooping the latest sheet of cookies onto a plate. He came around the corner and she looked up, her bright blue eyes meeting his brown ones which were, inexplicably, brimming with tears.

"Why are you crying?" she asked numbly, her heart plummeting into her stomach. Tears sprang to her own eyes as she reached the terrible conclusion. "Where's Mom?" Her hands trembled violently and the spatula she was holding dropped to the floor.

"Sammie," he began, emotion thickening his words. "Your mom..."

"No," she whispered, tears finally overwhelming her eyes and dripping down her face. "No!"

"She took a cab from the airport," her father continued resolutely, staring at the floor. "There was an accident."

Sam looked up sharply, her grief quickly finding an outlet in anger. "Why'd she take a cab?" she demanded. "You were picking her up."

Her dad closed his eyes painfully. Swallowing with great difficulty, he managed a shaky, "I was late."

Sam, usually very calm, exploded. "You killed her!" she screamed. "Work has always come first for you, always! Now Mom's gone, and it's your fault!" Unable to face him any longer, she ran for the door and wrenched it open. His cries of "Sam! Come back! Please!" fell on deaf ears.

She ran blindly, not looking or even particularly caring where she was going. Her feet led her around various obstacles in her path; she jogged this route often and knew most of the base like the back of her hand. She had a close call with a platoon out for drill exercises, but barely even noticed the sergeant yelling after her. Her mind had shut down; all she knew was the raw emotion coursing through her veins and the reassuring double-impact sound of her feet hitting the pavement.

Suddenly she found herself flat on her back. Confused, she sat up slowly and blinked at the unoccupied space in front of her. Her gaze gradually dropped and she realized what had stopped her so abruptly – or rather, who. The little boy pushed himself up on his elbows, squinting at her from deep blue eyes set in a field of freckles. She didn't even remember seeing the kid, let alone smacking headlong into him.

"Why don't you watch where you're going?" she scowled angrily.

"Sorry," the boy drawled, sitting up more fully.

Guilt crept in at the edges of her anger. "It wasn't your fault," she sighed, drawing her knees up to her chest and resting her chin on them. Despite her best efforts, tears leaked from her tightly shut eyes and dripped onto her jeans.

"Wanna talk about it?" a small voice asked from next to her ear. She opened her eyes to find the boy sitting beside her, gazing at her with concern.

"Not really."

"My dad says talking helps," he encouraged her.

"Yeah, well, _my_ dad's a jerk," she replied, wiping her eyes roughly with her sleeve.

"Oh," he responded, pausing momentarily. "What's he do?"

"I don't know," she muttered, "and I don't really care. Whatever it is, he's never home."

"Oh," he repeated. "My dad's a test pilot."

"Good for him."

"He crashed last month," the boy continued, oblivious to her non-conversational tone. "He had to have his legs ampertatered."

"You mean amputated?" she corrected, drawn in, despite herself, by his charming candor.

"Right," he nodded, smiling bravely.

Sam was mildly impressed with his stoicism. "That must have been scary," she commented, somewhat automatically.

"Yeah," he agreed. "But Dad talks about it a lot, so it's not so bad. And he lets me ask questions."

"Too bad that wouldn't work for me," Sam mumbled to herself.

"Whaddaya mean?" the boy asked unwittingly. Sam turned to meet his innocent blue eyes and, strangely, felt herself wanting to tell him.

"My mom…" she started, but a lump immediately rose to her throat. She swallowed hard, hot tears stinging her eyes again. "My mom…died," she managed in a whisper. She turned her face away, tears streaming in earnest now.

She felt a small hand settle on her shoulder and the boy's ingenuous voice say, "I'm sorry."

Anyone else and she probably would have shrugged away their sympathy along with their hand. But from this boy, for some reason, she accepted it. Maybe it was because he was so sincere, so innocent. Maybe it was because he was a stranger and she didn't have to worry about what he would think of her. Whatever the reason, she was willing to face him with a watery almost-smile.

"Are you sure you don't wanna talk about it?" he asked, his big blue eyes wells of compassion.

"I don't even know your name," she dodged, though without rancor.

"Cameron," he smiled brightly, dimples creasing his freckled cheeks. He thrust out his hand.

"Samantha," she responded in kind, taking his proffered hand. "Sam."

"Nice to meet ya."

"My dad killed her," Sam blurted suddenly. And then the words came, fast and furious. "He was supposed to pick her up at the airport; she was visiting her sister and was coming in today. He was supposed to pick her up. But he was late; he was at work, he's always at work. He cares more about his work than us. She took a cab. There was an accident. I don't even know what happened. But now she's gone. It's his fault. If he'd been there, if she hadn't had to take a cab…" A sob finally stopped her tirade.

Cameron's hand was back on her shoulder as it heaved with sobs, now dry. He didn't try to rebut her harangue, didn't say anything at all. He was just there, his little hand providing all the support she needed right now.

It was several minutes before she drew a shaky breath and pulled away from the young boy. He gazed concernedly at her and she tried to smile reassuringly, but it came out as more of a grimace. Cameron seemed to understand her intent, though, and returned a supportive grin.

"Thank you," Sam said, heartfelt. On a whim, she reached out and tousled his red-brown hair affectionately. "You're a good kid," she grinned.

"Hey," he complained good-naturedly, ducking away. "Quit it."

They stood, brushing the dust from their pants. Glancing around, Sam realized she had run clear across the base without knowing it. She sighed heavily, not thrilled about returning home and facing the inevitable confrontation with her father. The run and the conversation with Cameron had been cathartic, though, and her batteries had been at least partially recharged. She glanced at the young boy who had been so kind to her and he met her gaze steadily. Reaching out, she gave him a quick hug. His surprise was evident on his face when she withdrew, and his freckled cheeks reddened slightly.

"Bye, Cameron," she waved.

"Bye, Sam," he replied, turning to go home. He threw a quick grin over his shoulder as he ran up the street, then turned a corner and disappeared.


End file.
